


we've got your back, whatever that's worth

by drashian



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Agender Character, Coming Out, Other, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drashian/pseuds/drashian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a queer history lesson and ends with two people willingly bonded together for life, by choice and by fate. Brief stops in the lingerie department, Netflix, Abbie's floor, Ichabod's bed, and the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've got your back, whatever that's worth

**Author's Note:**

> I WATCHED ALL OF SLEEPY HOLLOW THIS WEEKEND AND PROMPTLY WROTE THIS. YOU'RE WELCOME.
> 
> This basically ignores the existence of Katrina or any plot and is the nice, happy "the apocalypse is happening but slowly and it leaves plenty of time for wearing dresses and watching the Hunger Games" universe. Whatever. It could be canon compliant if you want it to be.
> 
> (Title is from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SUp5IzUmSNc).)

Ichabod, after the first couple of days, had done a really good job at shutting up every time there was something shocking about gender or race or anything similarly potent. Abbie had called it “internal processing” but she really just meant for him to stop saying (unintentionally) offensive shit to her face.

So when he turned to her and very carefully, almost delicately asked, “If it is acceptable for women to dress in what was once men’s clothing, is the reverse also true?” she was surprised. He hadn’t tried to do this in at least a week.

She sighed and tried to still the jump in her stomach, that sudden anxiety that he was about to go down a road she had been trying to keep him from. “It’s… complicated,” she started, and paused for a bit, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “For most men, not really. It depends on the guy, though, I mean it’s usually more acceptable if you’re gay or into fashion, but most everyday straight dudes, not so much. Plus, your ideas about men and women are really different than ours, I mean the idea of gender and sex…” She winced at him. He was looking blankly at her, clearly trying to process what she was explaining, but he was born at least a hundred years too early for any of this to begin to make sense to him.

“Gay?” he started with.

Abbie drew her knees to her chest and put her head down on them. “Homosexual. A man who loves men.” He looked only vaguely satisfied with that. “Look, here, I’m going to find you some things to read and then you’re going to get back to me because I don’t have time for this.” She pulled up some Wikipedia articles about LGBTQ history and gender and set him to it. He had gotten really into Wikipedia lately, delighted by its “democratic process” and how much time he could spend clicking on links.

She decided very suddenly that she needed to read over the catalog of items in their archive-turned-hideout again. Ichabod was lost to the world now and her stomach was still twisting around with the possible origins of his question.

Abbie fell asleep on top of a handwritten ledger an hour later; Ichabod didn’t notice until even later once he had realized what time it was.

He gently shook her shoulder and she jumped awake. “Lieutenant, it’s gotten quite late. We should probably return home.”

She stood and stretched, checking her phone and seeing it was nearly midnight. Damn, Ichabod could just read through the apocalypse without her help.

She drove him to his cabin in silence. He clearly was thinking about something but she knew that look well, knew that it meant he was either going to bring it up or he wouldn’t. No use asking about it.

When they arrived, he didn’t move to open the door. Instead, he looked at Abbie curiously. “I found the reading you gave me very interesting,” he said, and she knew it was just him trying to find a polite route to his real point.

She nodded, raising her eyebrows.

He sighed, smiling. “You have no patience for polite conversation, do you?” He shook his head and was suddenly fascinated by his own hands. “I suppose I’m supposed to get to the point now.”

Abbie let him think for a minute. He looked uncertain and small.

“My question earlier was meant as no disrespect to any person’s choice of garment, but rather,” he frowned at his fingers fidgeting with his coat, “my own interest.”

They were silent for a minute.

“Oh.” That was all Abbie could say, really, because she was so aware of how every word she said mattered right now.

He grimaced.

“We should go inside,” she said, because the car was cold and small and she couldn’t really breathe.

Ichabod, of course, insisted on starting a fire before she could say anything, so she had plenty of time staring at his back to think about what she would say. He finally sat beside her, back straight, still not quite making eye contact.

“Look, Crane, this is… you have every right to wear whatever you want to.” She clenched and unclenched her jaw rhythmically. “I can’t tell you there aren’t a ton of people who will say shit to you, but nowadays it isn’t so important what people think of you.”

Ichabod smiled faintly and nodded.

Abbie sighed. He had told her something that he’d probably never told anyone else. Time to lay out her cards. “And, okay. I didn’t tell you anything about this because you’re 200 fucking years old, I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, but you know how sometimes people look at me really funny when we’re out?”

He nodded. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything.

“It’s not just because of when I was in the woods. It’s a pretty small town and you know how newspapers like to report on every little scandal they can find, and… Look, I’m not sure exactly how much you read about this, but I’m transgender. You know what that means?”

Ichabod looked up at her in surprise and nodded, his lips parted. He looked almost… excited.

“Okay. Good. ‘Cause I’m not here to give you Trans 101. And I don’t really talk about it but basically everyone knows. Now that I’m a cop, people don’t say a lot about it since I’m armed, but you know how people are. They’re bigots and gossipmongers and sensationalists.” She played with the tips of her hair. “But I’m telling you about this because, first of all, we’re friends and you deserve my trust, but also because I really, really understand what you’re going through.”

Ichabod took a minute to speak, but when he looked up at Abbie, he was smiling. “Thank you for your confidence, Lieutenant. And I… though I may be offended and confused by much of your modern language, the fact that there now exist words for things that I could never have dreamt to articulate is a gift.”

Abbie couldn’t help but smile back. “I’ll give you some more reading on this stuff, okay? I don’t know what the fuck you identify as or what you’re going to, but I can try to help. I’ve been there.”

Ichabod nodded enthusiastically, always excited about the prospect of more reading. And, perhaps, about the idea of more bonding with Abbie.

She pulled up some good blogs because she didn’t need to poison Ichabod’s mind with Wikipedia’s rampant transphobia and left for the night with the promise to bring some of her books from home tomorrow.

Even if it was kind of weird, she couldn’t help but feel personally accomplished. She’d smelled queer all over Ichabod from day one, even if half of it was just 18th century mannerisms. The drive home she just thought about taking Ichabod clothes shopping and the thought kept her smiling until she fell asleep.

\- - -

Ichabod burned through her bookshelf quickly and was going to exhaust the library’s (quite small) queer theory selection soon. Meanwhile, he hadn’t really brought anything much up to Abbie, though he’d sometimes share favorite passages and she would nod and smile because they were hers too.

About a week later, he declared to her, “I believe I’ve found a term to describe myself,” and she put down her paperwork because she knew that voice and that face.

She stood and walked over to where Ichabod was sprawled across the floor with the laptop, sitting next to him on the floor. Why did he always have to read in such horrible positions?

“I’ve done a lot of searching on terminology, and I think the term ‘agender’ is most applicable.” He pronounced the word deliberately, his mouth savoring the syllables. She wondered how long he spent whispering it to himself, practicing it, looking in the mirror and seeing exactly what it looked like as the words escaped his lips.

She grinned because she was proud of him, honestly. “That’s great, Crane.” Her words sounded hollow, she knew, but she didn’t know any words to express just how happy she was in that moment.

He just smiled and nodded and forwent words, just moving his head into her lap and closing his eyes. She didn’t try to stop her fingers from brushing through his bangs, braiding and combing them out.

\- - -

Ichabod would not leave the dressing room.

“Look, okay, I know how you feel about modern clothes, but I tried. I tried so hard. And I am a fashionable woman. You need to show me.” Abbie considered breaking down the door but, thankfully, Ichabod cracked the door open.

“I’m not sure this is quite presentable,” they said as disclaimer before emerging. Abbie gasped and couldn’t contain a grin. She’d given them black leggings and a loose, knee-length floral dress. It even had sleeves. It was the most modest thing she’d considered.

Ichabod was not as impressed with it.

“You look really good, honestly,” she said, gesturing for them to turn and show her all angles.

(Ichabod had gone on a pronoun odyssey briefly but returned offended that modern linguistics was against the singular they and decided to use it defiantly. She approved.)

“The garments aren’t so bad as most of your modern options, but I’m not sure they look right on me.” They pulled at the hem of the dress, inspecting themselves in the full-length mirror.

She grimaced. “Most things won’t. That’s just kind of how things go with clothes. You just have to find things that make you feel good, even if they don’t look perfect.”

They nodded and crossed their arms over their chest. She rolled her eyes. “Is that the issue?”

“What?”

“Don’t play ignorant. You want boobs.”

They scrunched their nose at the terminology but nodded.

She grinned. “We can do that.”

She dragged them back to the department store the next day. Ichabod was back in their usual outfit and they, slowly, made their way to the lingerie section. The closer they got, the redder Ichabod’s cheeks got, until they flat-out stopped before actually stepping foot off the linoleum pathway.

Abbie stopped and crossed her arms, glaring at them.

“Lieutenant, this is highly inappropriate.” They glanced at the many model photographs and winced.

Abbie tapped her foot.

“I can’t possibly! I take back what I said. Let’s just leave it.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Ichabod managed to stare her down for ten whole seconds before they broke. “Fine,” they grumbled, and let her drag them in.

“Thank God I measured you last night,” she said, and Ichabod stiffened at the memory. This whole process was proving completely humiliating, despite how many times Abbie assured them it was no problem. “They wouldn’t measure you here, I’m sure, because everyone’s a transphobic dick around here.”

They just blankly stared at her and the lacy things she was flipping through. Modern undergarments were still a bit of a mystery to them. Much less fabric, to begin with.

“Hmm, you’ve got a pretty broad chest…” She picked up a couple different sizes. They were all black and lacy. Ichabod had developed a sudden interest in the ceiling.

She shoved the bras into their arms and grinned as they turned bright red and stuttered something unintelligible.

“Come on, let’s keep looking.”

She explained the basics of bra sizing while loading Ichabod’s arms with more and more varieties. They wondered vaguely what, exactly, was in some of these bras that would increase the appearance of someone’s cup size, but didn’t ask.

The two of them went into a dressing room in the back of the store so they wouldn’t be seen, a precaution Abbie didn’t want to have to explain but one Ichabod understood perfectly. She helped them dress instead of waiting outside and they were completely red and stiff with embarrassment as soon as they had taken off their shirt.

Abbie systematically led Ichabod through the different size options and colors and picked out two bras for them, which she assured them was a miracle. “It took me months to actually buy one bra, and I had to do it alone,” she confided, and Ichabod smiled and relaxed a bit. It had been enough to see the bras on display and a whole new level of embarrassment to actually put them on their own body, to choose their own bust size, to nod silently at the choice of burgundy over blue.

She didn’t let them say a word at the price of clothes, nor to protest when she promised to order some breast forms. They didn’t need to ask what those were; it was fairly self-explanatory.

Below their embarrassment, they were really very happy, and they hoped their strained smiles were conveying it properly. From Abbie’s proud look, they were doing the trick just fine.

\- - -

Ichabod found Abbie leaning against her car, determinedly playing Candy Crush and swiping tears from her eyes occasionally. “Lieutenant…” they said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into them, letting their arm envelop her, and looked up at them, her eyes red.

“It’s stupid, I know, and I’m going to be fine, I’m just sick of dealing with it.” She put her forehead in the center of Ichabod’s chest.

“It’s not true, you know, and you are as much a woman as you wish to be.” They patted her head and let her cry, even if it was getting their only shirt wet.

“I know,” she whispered and nodded, breathing steadily until she could stand on her own and got in the car. “Let’s go home.” Ichabod couldn’t agree more.

\- - -

She opened the door to find Ichabod in one of their slowly growing collection of dresses, which at this point, was no surprise. What was a surprise was how sometimes they would voluntarily wear things without sleeves or cut above the knee. It was the little things, she knew, that she should be thankful for.

“Lieutenant, I’m glad you’re here. I just finished your loaned novel and I’m ready to watch the film!” She shook her head and sat on the couch, taking out her laptop and opening Netflix. Ichabod had gotten really into movies and, of course, had always agreed to read the books before watching. They sat beside her, putting their feet on the coffee table and impatiently watching as she opened _The Hunger Games_ and put the laptop on the table in front of them.

“I find your ‘young adult’ novels the best; they have a similar sense of drama and moral teachings as what I’m accustomed to.” Abbie laughed, remembering how quickly they had gone through Harry Potter.

They watched the movie leaning against each other, physical closeness not so strange between them. Ichabod was always so affected by the sad scenes, so Abbie put her hand on their knee when Prim’s name was chosen and didn’t move it away afterward.

Ichabod buried their face in her hair while Rue lay dying and Abbie held both of their hands.

When Katniss and Peeta kissed on screen, Ichabod snorted derisively. “What?” Abbie said, laughing.

“Why would she fall for a _cisgender_ boy? And such an impolite and sweaty one?” Abbie cracked up and looked at their face, which was completely serious.

“Oh my God, it’s your first time making fun of cis people,” she said through her laughter. She fell on her back on the couch, her legs hooked over their lap.

Ichabod smiled conspiratorially.

\- - -

Ichabod leaned across Abbie’s desk and whispered, “I see what you mean about _cis people_ ,” and the way they pronounced the words and looked so deadpan sent her into violent laughter.

“Yeah, that’s Officer Paulson for you. He can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want his magnificent dick,” she said, careful to see that he had left earshot. Ichabod snorted and giggled. Abbie nearly heard Jenny’s chastising voice accusing her of converting everyone around her to making fun of cis men. So what if it was kind of true?

\- - -

“So Abbie says you’re using different pronouns now,” Jenny said, settling into the seat across from Ichabod, cracking open a can of Pepsi.

They blanched, stuttering, “I-I mean, well—“

Jenny waved her hand at them. “It’s cool.”

Ichabod considered for a moment then nodded curtly. “Your sister has been a guide to me in this process,” they said.

“That’s Abbie, always playing the queer help center.” She took a long drink. “You’re in good hands. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“Yes, she certainly does,” they said, their face getting the tiniest bit warm and looking down at their hands.

Jenny cocked an eyebrow and didn’t mention it.

\- - -

“I’m sleeping here,” Abbie declared, yawning and wincing as the bandages on her arm stretched. They’d retreated to the cabin after an incident with one psychic demon and five brainwashed ex-Marines, both of them pretty scraped up from being thrown against asphalt. Repeatedly.

Ichabod nodded, their eyes already closing. It was probably close to 3 a.m. but neither of them bothered to check. They gestured at their bedroom door. “Take the bed,” they said, starting to lay on the couch.

“Nuh uh, come on, your heater is broken and it’s January. You’re coming with me.” Ichabod’s face scrunched up, probably thinking something chivalrous, but allowed her to lead them off the couch. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a thousand intimate moments by now, honestly, why was it always such a struggle?

She stripped down to her t-shirt and underwear and stole a pair of sweatpants from Ichabod’s drawer of almost never worn clothes. They avoided looking at her while she changed and she gave them the same courtesy. She still noted, with triumph, that they put on some of the clothes she’d bought as pajamas.

They climbed into bed together, Abbie curling up against Ichabod’s chest and their arm instinctively draping across her shoulders. She sighed into their warmth and slowly drifted to sleep, comforted by the feeling of Ichabod twirling and finger combing her hair.

\- - -

Ichabod’s head popped up from behind Abbie’s couch and she would have been startled, had she not been used to their sudden appearance every time she was starting to relax.

“What is it, Ichabod?” she asked. They had both agreed to try really, really hard to use each other’s first names starting this week, which meant a lot of stumbling and awkward moments, but she had gotten sick of their constant formality.

“Look, have you seen this?” They handed her the laptop—which was more and more shared and not just hers, to her constant annoyance—which was open to an FAQ about queerplatonic relationships.

She raised her eyebrows and skimmed the page; she wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, but had never really paid much attention. When she lifted her eyes to Ichabod’s, they were smiling happily, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“So?” they said, taking the laptop back into their arms.

A smile broke across Abbie’s face. It was all too obvious what Ichabod was getting at. “Sounds good to me.”

“Wonderful!” they said, practically bouncing back to where they were lying across her rug, laptop held aloft above their face. It was a miracle it hadn’t fallen and broken their nose yet.

Abbie went back to her book, feeling warmth and excitement expanding in her chest.

She’d almost forgotten she wasn’t alone until Ichabod calling, “Abigail!” startled her out of her reading trance.

“What’s up?” she said, leaning over the back of the couch.

“Look!” they said, shoving the laptop into her hands. She sighed and resigned herself to her eternal fate because Ichabod had found those Animal Planet videos about the puppies.

\- - -

Abbie leaned against the kitchen counter to allow Ichabod to pass behind her, cursing how small her kitchen was. They were constantly knocking elbows, trying to cut vegetables and chicken and preheat the oven and take things on and off the burners.

“Why did we agree to cook dinner?” Ichabod asked, squinting at the instructions on a microwavable bag of corn.

“Because we have to return the favor,” she said, long-suffering. Jenny wouldn’t let any debt go unpaid and they owed her for Thanksgiving, so taking over for Easter had sounded fair.

Ichabod squeezed past her a second time after (hopefully) figuring out how to put the bag in the microwave for the right amount of time. They lifted the lid on a pot heating to cook rice in, frowning at the water, which was still not boiling. She lifted the cutting board to put the chicken breasts in a baking pan and knocked Ichabod on the elbow, sending their hand and wrist against the scalding pot.

“Ow! Fuck!” they hissed, withdrawing their hand and going to put it under cold water. Abbie was silent and they turned to look at her sudden stillness and found her gaping, halfway between a grin and actual shock.

“What?” they said.

“You actually swore,” she said. “I’m a bad influence.”

Ichabod rolled their eyes. “Hardly. You realize profanity is not a modern invention.”

She barked out a laugh and opened the oven to put the chicken in to bake. “I get that. You’re just so proper.”

Ichabod snorted, drying their hands off on the nearest tea towel. “In comparison to my old contemporaries, I am downright crude.”

She tried to imagine Ichabod as crude and decided that, probably, curling up on her couch to watch increasingly ridiculous documentaries, learning how to order at Starbucks, and sometimes indulging in dresses was not exactly 18th century good manners.

\- - -

Summer came, and with it, Ichabod explored outdoors more and more, walking through the woods and tracing the creek near their cabin nearly every day. Sometimes Abbie would arrive and there would be a post-it stuck to the door telling her that they’d gone out, signed with an I and a heart. Usually she stayed in the cabin or near it and waited for them to come back, but this time she heard the crunching of footfalls and decided to chase after them.

“Ichabod!” she called once she saw them and they stopped and turned. They were wearing a white and red floral romper, to her surprise, because no matter how many times she told them that it was perfectly fine to wear, they still tugged at it awkwardly. Their hair was clean and braided (she’d taught them how to French braid) and they practically glowed under the sunlight.

“It looks good,” she said, smiling as she arrived next to them in the branch-covered ground.

Ichabod looked away, embarrassed. “Well, I thought it would be appropriate, given the weather.” They were wearing more and more modern clothes, even if they still preferred loose cotton tops and baggier pants in public. In private, sometimes they might even wear something form-fitting.

She nodded. “I approve.” She slipped her hand into theirs and they set off downhill.

Ichabod detailed their exciting progress in figuring out how online shopping worked and informed her that they had put together a sizeable wish list for future reference. “Do you think I’m made of money?” she quipped but mentally noted to look at it later, maybe buy a couple things. 

“No, but since you refuse to allow me to earn my own wages, I am forced to rely upon you.”

“You don’t have a social security number. We’ve been over this.” Abbie rolled her eyes.

Ichabod leapt over the creek as they arrived and gestured for Abbie to follow. She did and let them lead her to a grassy bank.

“I often lay here and simply listen to the woods. You cannot hear any cars or electricity here. It’s relaxing.” They lay back and Abbie followed with only a passing concern about dirt and twigs getting in her hair.

The blue sky peeked through the ever-shifting canopy of leaves, the sun beating its warmth on every inch of exposed skin. Abbie nearly drifted to sleep but instead turned to look at Ichabod. Their hair caught the sunlight and turned golden, strands falling over their forehead and splaying out over the grass. They stared upwards, their eyes bright and light catching in their lashes every time they blinked. After a minute, they turned and met eyes with Abbie, smiling. She reached up to touch their cheek, her fingertips rubbing against their stubble.

“Is this okay?” she said quietly, leaning her lips closer to theirs.

They nodded. “As long as your honor remains unoffended.”

She snorted and pulled their lips together, kissing them slowly and lazily. Their legs tangled and she traced kisses across their cheekbones, their nose, their eyelids.

“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” she said, kissing their forehead.

“As am I,” they said, their hand slipping around her waist. “Even if I am often confused and overwhelmed by the modern world, I am eternally grateful that I have met you, Abigail.”

She curled up and lay her head on their chest, closing her eyes and letting the sun on her cheeks and the thick smell of grass and fruity soap and firewood lull her into a well-deserved nap.

**Author's Note:**

> am i the first sleepy hollow transfic author. i think i am. this is really exciting. i am a god damn pioneer.
> 
> also that hunger games segment is basically verbatim from me. peeta is gross and cis and sweaty and yet somehow attractive. ew.


End file.
